


you be the match (i'll be a fuse)

by dansunedisco



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alpha Bellamy Blake, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, F/M, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega Clarke Griffin, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes her all morning to realize the symptoms for what they are (her heat, two weeks too early), and by then, it’s too late to do anything about it. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Omega!Clarke and Alpha!Bellamy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you be the match (i'll be a fuse)

**Author's Note:**

> There's one tiny mention of past Clarke/Lexa, hence the bisexual Clarke tag.

Clarke wakes to a low-level headache. 

_Great_ , she thinks; she has a slew of classes she needs to study for and the dull throbbing at her temples is the exact opposite of what she needs. Stress is a bitch.

She gets up, gulps down a glass of water, brushes her teeth, and tries to go about her daily routine. Keyword: tries. Halfway through her o-chem notes her teeth get sensitive, and then she gets hot, her skin tight and her clothes uncomfortable. She strips down to her underwear and tank top, ignores the buzz in her head, and dives back into studying. It’s not great, but it’s progress.

It takes her all morning to realize the symptoms for what they are (her heat, two weeks too early), and by then, it’s too late to do anything about it. She stumbles into the bathroom and despairs at her suppressants; two pills at the onset can make the heat tolerable, but she didn’t even _realize_. She checks the cycle app on her phone; even though it’s telling her she’s not due for fourteen more days, it still doesn’t make sense. She’s early. She’s _never_ early. All omegas know stress and other random factors can alter heat patterns, but she’s been on the same schedule since she presented at sixteen.

In a few hours, she’ll be heat-stupid; her body consumed with a burning desire to be claimed, and little else. Her heats usually last two days, three tops -- much too long to be alone. She can’t leave her house, and she doesn’t have supplies.

She chews on her thumbnail, thinks of the one person ( _alpha_ ) she trusts and bites back a moan when she thinks of him coming here, taking care of her, satisfying her the way she's been dreaming about since they met. And if she wants that (and god, does she want that), she needs to call him _now_.

 

-

 

“What are you doing for the next two days?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy hears the hitch in her breath over the phone, the way she’s panting harshly over the line; all telltale signs, but he still has to ask, “Are you in heat?”

She hisses, and he hears a muffled crash on her end. “Fuck,” she breathes after a long moment, “yes, I’m in heat. It’s early and -- I don’t have a plan. I don’t have anyone.”

_I just have you_ is the unspoken sentence that hangs between them.

Bellamy scrubs a hand through his hair, torn. A no strings attached heat buddy is a relatively new concept, and he vaguely remembers he and Clarke having a drunk discussion about it in the first few weeks of their friendship.

“It’s so stupid,” Clarke said, “that there’s still this stigma over omegas being knotted out of a bonded relationship.”

Bellamy agreed, wholeheartedly, and somehow their conversation drifted into heat buddy talk and -- that’s probably why she’s calling now. He’s an alpha; one of the few unattached ones in their social circle, and she knows he’s theoretically cool with spending a heat with someone outside of a bond. Theoretically, of course, because he’s been (a little bit) in love with Clarke since they met. There would be so many strings, if he did this. 

“Bellamy?” Clarke prompts, sounding a kind of desperate he’s never heard from her before.

“I don’t --” he cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what an omega’s heat feels like; just basic facts from classes and personal anecdotes he’s picked up through the course of his life, but it doesn’t sound like a walk in the park. Clarke’s talked about hers a time or two, usually to complain about the disruption in her routine, and Bellamy -- he can’t _not_ do anything, if she’s desperate enough to ask him to help her. The strings would be worth it, for her. “What do you need me to do?”

She sighs, like she’s relieved. “Supplies,” she says, and lists off things like food and condoms, rounding off her request with a quiet, “Hurry, please.” 

By the time Bellamy arrives with an armful of groceries, Clarke’s barely able to stay on the phone with him. “I'm here, Clarke. Can you open the door for me?” he asks, gently infusing his tone with alpha power; he rarely uses it, and tries not to revel in it when Clarke hums, low and receptive.

She opens the door around the time Bellamy’s seriously considering kicking it down, and his toes curl in his shoes at the sight of her; cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, hair wild and messy. She looks like every fantasy he let himself have of her, and he can't even feel bad about it.

“You're here,” she says, and pulls him in for a sloppy, longing kiss right in the doorway.

“Let me put this stuff away,” he says, trying to keep his wits about him despite Clarke and her amazing mouth, and she reluctantly allows him to crowd past her and into the kitchen. She hovers behind him the entire time he's stocking the cabinets, keeps a hand on his side like she's afraid he's going to disappear into thin air.

“Bellamy,” she says, “hurry the hell up.”

He barks out a laugh. “Go to the bedroom,” he says, “I'll be right behind you.”

She hesitates, and presses up onto her toes to give him a brief kiss. It's the softest he's seen her yet, and his heart squeezes. 

“I'll be waiting,” she says, and yeah, Bellamy’s going to hell for this.

 

-

 

Clarke walks to her bedroom, feeling drunk and giddy; seeing Bellamy, kissing him, took the initial heat-stupid edge off, but it’s coming back now. She shucks out of her clothes and crawls onto the mattress, feeling more like a noodle than a human being, and waits.

It feels like forever passes before Bellamy comes to stand in her bedroom’s doorway. She reaches out to him automatically, and he comes to kneel next to her. He's gorgeous, everything she's wanted, and she's so happy he's here with her, for her.

“Hi,” she says, suddenly feeling a weird sort of shy. Having sex -- heat sex -- doesn’t have to mean anything, but she wants this to mean something to Bellamy; mostly because she can’t lie and say this won’t mean anything to her. She brushes her finger across his lower lip. 

“You're sure about this,” he asks, and she really has to admire his restraint. She shared a heat with Lexa once, and neither of them were able to talk things through before the pheromone cocktail got the best of them.

“I'm sure,” she says, and fumbles at his belt to show him she's not kidding, but dexterity is not on her side today. She grumbles. “Take your pants off.”

Bellamy dips down to kiss her. She gets lost in the feeling of his lips, and she digs her fingers into his shoulders, groans as he trails hungry kisses down her neck and across her jaw. It's bliss, and she feels herself get impossibly wet; her sheets are going to be ruined after this, but it'll be worth it.

“You’re good at this,” she pants between stretches of kissing.

“I’m even better at this,” he says, and strokes his thumb across her clit. 

Clarke shakes with it, rolls her hips to chase the feeling. Any reply she would’ve given him gets lost in her throat. _Of course he would be cocky about this_ , she thinks. He wasn’t lying about being good. He slips his fingers back and slides inside of her, easy and thick. He pumps his fingers a few times, like he can’t help himself. She groans. She feels _full_. It’s perfect.

“Jesus, you're wet,” Bellamy says, a tremor of awe in his voice. “Can I go down on you?”

“God, _yes_ ,” she moans, unwound by his words and his touch, and spreads her knees wider; he fingers her for a while, alternating his gaze between her face, her breasts, where he’s taking her apart piece by piece. She watches him, too, stuck between her own pleasure and wanting all of his reactions to herself. 

“Bellamy, please --” she gasps when he massages the spot inside of her that makes her go boneless and slack jawed. She arches into it, letting the crest build and build with every stroke. She comes around his fingers, a sweet and easy orgasm that barely tempers the fire between her legs. 

Bellamy disrobes while she recovers. When he’s naked, he grabs her thighs and drags her to his mouth, humming happily as she grabs at his hair. “Your _mouth_ ,” she gasps, and comes again when he curves a finger into her, almost too quick. 

Normally, an orgasm would bring her back from the edge, but the ones she’s having with Bellamy seem to only toss her deeper into her heat. It’s intense, and a little scary, feeling herself slip further and further into it. It’s a biological sign, she knows -- her body craving a knot to break the fever -- but knowing doesn’t make it any less intense.

She tugs at his hair, urges him up to kiss her. “I need you,” she murmurs against his mouth, bringing her thighs up to cradle his hips. His cock slips against her folds, and they both hiss. The stupidest thing to do would be to proceed without protection, but a part of her wants to, badly.

 

-

 

Bellamy almost breaks. Almost. Clarke’s looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, thighs bumping his hips, and she’s wet enough it would only take one wrong move to enter her. And it’s fucked up, so fucked up, that he knows he would if she asked. He swallows hard and reaches for his pants, for the condom he stashed in the pocket, and puts it on as fast as he can. 

He takes his time sliding into her, watches her face cloud with pleasure as he begins to rock his hips in a rhythm she eagerly matches. It doesn’t take long before his knot starts to swell, catching inside of Clarke with every thrust. She moans his name, digs her fingers into the dimples above his ass; he swears he feels her get even wetter and hotter around him. He swears and drops to his elbows, rolls steadily into Clarke as she writhes underneath him.

“I’m close, don’t stop--” she pants, and her knees tightening against him is, surprisingly, what brings him over the edge. He locks inside of her suddenly, hips twitching in aborted movements as he comes and comes, and he groans long and low when he feels her tighten around him. It’s perfect.

 

-

 

They spend two days together, the majority of it in bed having an amazing amount of sex. Clarke’s heat fever breaks when they’re getting dangerously low on condoms.

“Lucky timing,” she remarks, impressed that they managed to go through two boxes. She’s sore, and her neck and chest (and thighs) are covered in beard burn, but she feels great. Refreshed in a way she never is after a heat. “I think you might be literal magic, just FYI.”

Bellamy looks just as wrecked as her, but he smiles, pleased. “‘Bellamy: Literal Magic’. Think I can put it on business cards?”

“Sure. Use me as a reference,” she says. “What business will you be in?”

“No business, just cards,” he replies. Then, after a long moment, “Do we need to talk?”

She raises her eyebrows. “About us spending a heat together?” 

He nods vaguely. “Yeah, like… feelings.”

“‘Like... feelings’,” she repeats with a laugh. She’s pretty sure they’re on the same boat, but she knows Bellamy well enough to know he probably won’t take the plunge unless she does first. “Well, I have them. Do you?”

He narrows his eyes, and she smiles wide without meaning to. “How long?” he asks, and he groans when they both admit they’ve been pining since day one.

“I’m dumb,” he says, and she kisses him, slow.

“We’re both dumb,” she corrects him, and throws her leg over his. “Think we can both fit in my shower?”

**Author's Note:**

> :') sorry


End file.
